


Inheritance

by vanillafluffy



Category: The Three Investigators | Die drei ??? - Various Authors, The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24174718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: Ben is there for Trixie after her friend Mr. Przewalski passes away. His lawyer delivers some surprising news.
Relationships: Mart Belden/E. Skinner Norris, Trixie Belden/Jupiter Jones | Justus Jonas
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	Inheritance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Trixie says for the fourth time. Her face is tear-stained, and I drape my arm across her shoulders, patting her back.

“He was an old, old man,” I reply awkwardly. “It was his time.”

“I know.” She sniffles. “And he was getting weaker and weaker…I knew he didn’t have much longer, but I still didn’t…I’m going to miss him!”

I showed up at the salvage yard with a produce delivery while the ambulance was across the street, and of course, I went to see what was going on. I could see Trixie talking to the EMTs, and at first I was worried that something had happened to her.

Saying I was relieved to find out it was her friend, Mr. Przewalski--I know, that sounds terrible. But he was in his nineties and I barely knew him. Trixie is one of my best friends, in addition to being my sister-in-law. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to her.

Now, Mr. P’s remains have been taken away, and I’ve stayed to comfort Trixie. She’s inconsolable about the loss of the old man, and Jupiter Jones, her fiance, is away on a salvage job in Laguna Beach. It looks like I’m ‘it’ by default.

“I wish that lawyer would get here,” she mutters, looking toward the street. We’re sitting on the front porch of Mr. P’s tidy little cottage. Neither of us is perched in the rocking chair he’d passed away in, thank you very much.

“Lawyer?” I ask in surprise. Surely there isn’t enough of an estate to concern lawyers.

Trixie sighs. “We knew this was coming. He had the guy’s phone number posted on the fridge, told me to contact him as soon as he…died.” 

I have a little experience with death and lawyers--my granny’s passing a few years ago has left me with a deep suspicion of the breed--so I resolve to stick around and help her if I can. Nobody’s going to push Trixie around at a time like this!

“Oh, Ben, I don’t know what I’m going to do!” she wails. “I’ve seen his checking statements--I helped him, because he couldn’t see well enough read them--I know he wants to be buried beside his wife, but there’s hardly any money. Do you think Mart would be terribly upset if I withdrew some of my share of the marmalade money to take care of his funeral expenses?”

I don’t know how much exactly Belden Farms has in the bank these days, but on paper, Trixie is entitled to a third, and she’s hardly ever asked for any of it. Honestly, considering how much work she’s put into making artisnal marmalade, I feel like she should get more--although Mart and I have worked hard on the farming side of the business. “Depends on how fancy the funeral is, I guess. We’ll have to talk it over, all three of us. I certainly don’t mind.”

A silver-grey sedan pulls up to the curb. The guy who climbs out has dark hair and carries a briefcase.

“Ms. Belden, I’m John Gorodin. Good to meet you.” Gorodin is…mid-forties, maybe? Way younger than the guy who handled Granny’s affairs, but I still don’t trust him.

“Thank you for coming over. This is my brother-in-law, Ben Norris--” I clear my throat. “I mean, Ben Belden--” There’s some color in her cheeks at the error.

“I’m an old-fashioned boy,” I drawl, extending my hand. “I took my husband’s name.”

“I don’t know where to start,” Trixie says to him. “I’ve been helping Mr. P for the last couple years, cooking for him, keeping the place tidy. I can certainly continue to do that until the place is sold, but I’m worried about the funeral expenses. I know what he wanted done, but I know he didn’t have much money.” She bites her lip, looking earnestly at him.

“Sell the house? That’s certainly your right, but nothing like that can be done until probate is concluded.”

“We’ll have to talk to Mart,” she says to me. “He deserves to have the kind of funeral he wanted.”

But I don’t trust lawyers, and I’m curious about his choice of words. “What do you mean, it’s her right to sell the house?”

He blinks. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. Mr. Przewalski left everything to Ms. Belden. The house is hers, along with the contents of his safety deposit box, bank accounts and earthly possessions.”

“What?” Trixie gasps--and bursts into tears. “I don’t want his stuff! I want him!”

Gorodin offers his pocket square and she blots her face. 

I make a time-out gesture. “Excuse me, but what’s it going to take to get probated? Is it covered by the estate, or will she have to sell the house to break even? Is she going to see any money out of it?”

“Who cares about that!” she bursts out, looking at me as if I’ve said something awful.

The attorney is calm. “It’s difficult to calculate the net value of the estate without knowing the contents of the safety deposit box. Fortunately, our late friend already has a cemetery plot. His funeral expenses have been pre-paid--” Trixie gasps--relief, I imagine-- “and the legal fees have been negotiated as well. Quite possibly there are outstanding bills--utilities and such--but on the whole, I imagine probate should be fairly straightforward. I have a copy of the will--”

He sits down in the one available seat…the rocking chair. I don’t say anything. Trixie’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t say anything, either.

“That lovely, lovely man,” Trixie says wistfully, looking at the document and handing it to me. With her dyslexia, she probably doesn’t want to risk misreading something.

It’s short and to the point: Beatrix Alicia Belden is the sole heir to the estate of Wilbur Francis Przewalski. “Congratulations, Trixie,” I say after a moment. “It looks like he really appreciated everything you did for him.”

“I didn’t do it for that!” she protests.

“That’s probably why he did it.” Trixie is the sweetest person I’ve ever met. Although my feelings for her are absolutely platonic, having her as a sister-in-law is one of the great perks of being married to the love of my life. “You do so much and you never ask for much of anything from anybody.”

“We can make arrangements to inventory the safety deposit box as soon as we have a copy of the death certificate to present to the bank,” Gorodin tells us.

“I can’t believe it!” She shakes her head, looking at the house in bemusement. “I never thought--mine? That’s crazy.” 

“I talked to him while we were drawing it up,” Gorodin divulges. “He was lonely after his wife died, and you came along and helped him and listened to all his old stories.” He smiles. “Mr. P was my scoutmaster, back when I was a snot-nosed kid. He had some terrific stories about his adventures when he was traveling as a young man.”

Trixie's sunny smile appears. “Did he tell you the one about the goat in Woolworth’s?”

Unexpectedly, Gorodin laughs. “My cousins lived on a farm, we tried to play the same prank on my aunt. It got into their hall closet and ate a hole my uncle’s winter coat,”

For a lawyer, Gorodin seems to have a sense of humor. I still have some reservations about him, but I’m glad to see Trixie smiling instead of crying.

“I’ll make some calls to the rest of the guys I know who were in our troop,” he tells her. “I’m sure they’ll want to say their good-byes.”

I’m happy to see Trixie looks a little less woebegone. After Gorodin leaves, she says something about clearing out the fridge and tidying Mr. P’s room. “I’m okay,” she assures me. “It’s better if I keep busy.” I give her a hug and head back toward the Silver Bullet, relieved she’s going to be okay. 

But she’s inherited a house? Not just any house, but this one, which is right across the street from her job at Jones Salvage Yard. I have a sneaking suspicion that Mart and I are about to have the dome to ourselves. Not that I don’t love Trixie to death, but as a newlywed, the prospect of being able to carry on with my husband at the top of our lungs is seductive.

Gorodin is standing beside his car. He’d been on his phone after leaving us, I’d noticed, but now he’s just leaning against it, waiting.

Waiting for me, as it turns out.

“Excuse me, Mr. Belden….”

“What’s on your mind?”

“You mentioned your, ah, maiden name was Norris?”

I didn’t, Trixie did, but I’m not going to split hairs. “That’s right,” I say shortly.

“So you were originally Ebeneezer Skinner Norris, grandson of Francine Skinner, nee D’Agustino?”

_Of the San Francisco D’Agustinos_ as grandmother always qualified it. “So?” Then I figure out what he’s getting at. The whole mess after Grandmother’s death boils up, and I’m mad all over again. ““Forget it! Look, they told me there was no money left in the estate!” I growl. “So forget about trying to collect on her legal bills from me. It’s not going to happen!”

Gorodin raises his eyebrows, gazing steadily at me for a long moment. “Mr. Norris, you’ve been misinformed.”

“The name’s Belden,” I snap back. “What do you mean, ‘misinformed’?”

“I thought I recognized your name from our files,” he tells me. “We’ve been trying to locate you for several years, but apparently you disappeared after your grandmother’s death.”

“The asshole I dealt with told me there was no money, and that I had to get out of the house, so I did.” The next couple of years were horrible--I don’t like to think about them--and then I’d met Mart. Now we’re happily married and the absolute last thing I want is more drama with lawyers.

A gusty sigh from the other man. “I contacted our office just to make sure I was thinking of the right case. Mr. Desmond was in charge,” I scowl, recognizing the name, “and he’s no longer with us. Medical issues,” he adds, tapping the side of his head suggestively.

“Okay, fine, but I’m not responsible for her legal bills.” I have a one-third interest in the farm, but I’ll be damned if that goes to any damn lawyers!

“Mr. Belden, that’s settled. We’ll be happy to demonstrate that, and to arrange to disburse your inheritance.”

I stare at him. There _was_ money? Desmond had made it sound like Grandmother was mortgaged up to her carefully penciled eyebrows. “He said she lost it all when the market tanked.”

“I imagine that her investment income was greatly reduced, yes--but she certainly wasn’t penniless. And then there’s the house, which is free and clear--”

“You mean it wasn’t sold?” I’ve driven past the big Spanish-style hacienda occasionally--call me a masochist--and it’s been as well-maintained as it always was, although I’ve never seen anyone coming or going.

“It’s been kept up. The value of the estate couldn’t be allowed to diminish due to our neglect.” 

“But he told me--he said--” I’m trying to remember now, what exactly Desmond _did_ say.

“I imagine there was some confusion about the inventory.” Gorodin is patient. “In a case like that, we would’ve needed to inventory the contents of the house for tax purposes. Mrs. Skinner had a number of collections that were insured which needed to be valued. Our role was to make sure that you got everything that was supposed to be there. Mr. Desmond….”

“Told me she was damn near broke and that I couldn’t stay in the house.”

Gorodin sighs again. “I’m very sorry for that. I can only imagine how distressing that was for you.” He couldn’t possibly, but I don’t say it. “Let’s make an appointment for you to drop by our office so we can get the paperwork out of the way--”

What are the odds, I wonder, driving home, of Trixie and I both inheriting houses on the same day? Of course, it makes sense for Trixie to move into Mr. P’s place. She spends most of her days at the salvage yard, and when she and Jupiter get married, it’ll be perfect for both of them.

I, on the other hand…there’s just no way. We need to be on the farm, we can’t run back and forth to town every day to weed and harvest and feed the chickens. I feel a pang of nostalgia. At the same time, I really don’t want to sell the house. I love that house--it was the only place I felt at home during my crazy, mixed-up childhood. I’ll have to rent it or lease it out or something. What’s the zoning like? It would make a great bed-and-breakfast.

It isn’t until I’ve gotten home and parked the Silver Bullet that I realize how much the events of the afternoon have rattled me. My last produce order is still sitting in the back of the vehicle, undelivered.

…


End file.
